lillian the home poet

I remember Mrs. Jester’s house.
Reddish paint, curtains always open.
Mostly I remember her apple tree
blossoms bountiful,
sturdy limbs to climb.

That house has not aged well.
Foundation cracked,
three-quarters sinking low.
Panes of glass missing,
cracked or in shards.

Apple tree now diseased,
fallen waste dead at base,
putrefied in stinking mold.
All branches save one,
diseased from within.

Seven fruit, avoiding pestilence,
catch a bracing breeze,
land far away from tree.
Far from decaying rot,
their goodness intact.

Children on a walkabout
give wide room that rotting tree,
but see the golden orbs
and recognize their worth.
They stuff their pockets full.

At home the fruit is buffed and cored,
cut in quarters and enjoyed.
Children, wise beyond their years,
save seeds to grow again.
The youth shall become the sowers
and goodness shall survive.